Free of the Bloodstains
by LavenderQuetzal
Summary: She had been training for eight years. When her name was called, her family was ecstatic. But Diamond Coroll had no intention of living up to the Games' expectations and rules. She was never going to harm another person again.
1. The Reaping

Sweat beaded on my forehead. My arms hurt from exertion, my ears from my father's incessant shouting. Couldn't he see I was trying my hardest?

"Fight like this in the arena and yours'll be the first cannon fired!" my dad yelled. I screamed in frustration and reduced the next dummy to little rubber scraps. I blew some black hair out of my face. It was the last one. My father stopped the stopwatch and wrote something on his clipboard.

"Only four seconds faster than last time," my father said disappointedly. "And your style was dreadful. When that—"

"Four seconds faster?" I exclaimed. "I went through the whole course and destroyed all twelve of those in nineteen seconds and you're criticizing me?"

"Jumping over puddles and slicing up rubber mannequins is no grand feat," my father said. "In the arena—"

I groaned and turned away. Ever since I turned twelve, that's all my parents wanted from me. The arena. It didn't matter how much I reminded them of my brother—they were obsessed with me becoming a skillful tribute.

I stalked over to the exit of the training room. My father yelled at me to come back and do it again (with feeling this time!) but I ignored him and slammed the door behind me.

My name is Diamond Coroll and I'm fourteen years old. I live with my parents in District 1. My mother's cousin was a tribute in the Hunger Games years ago, and I suppose that partially accounts for my parents' obsession. There's also the fact that here in District 1, _everyone_ is obsessed with the Games. Everyone, that is, except me. And that's my brother's fault.

"Diamond, get back out here!" shouted my father.

I stuck out my tongue at the closed doors—frightfully immature, I know—and trudged up to my bedroom. The one place I could have some peace to think about things other than the Games. But, of course, trying not to think about the Hunger Games only made me think about it more.

XIXIXIX

The earrings my mother had insisted that I wear were too heavy. The dress was too long and itchy. The makeup felt stiff and sticky. The curling iron burned my neck. The shoes were too small and gave me blisters. Basically, I was thinking up every excuse I could to postpone my presence at the reaping.

"Hands off the curls," my mother ordered, slapping my hand away from my hair.

"My head hurts," I complained. "You're pulling too tight."

"Don't whine. Now stand up and let me see you."

I stood up from the plain chair had been sitting in for the past half hour and turned towards my mother. My black hair was curled and done up in a bun on top of my head, with two springy strands hanging on either side of my face. I was wearing a sleeveless, silvery dress with a long asymmetrical skirt. My shoes were high-heeled and sparkly. The jewelry I had on—bracelet, earrings, and necklace—was all studded and decorated with the gems I was named for. My mother squealed and clapped her hands.

"You look gorgeous!" she exclaimed. "Twirl for me."

I complied. The skirt twinkled and fluttered as I spun. My mother squealed again. I resisted rolling my eyes.

The phone rang. My mother picked it up and almost immediately handed it to me.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Diamond! Are you excited for the reaping?"

It was Gemma, a girl in my year at school and quite possibly the only friend who stuck around after my parents decided I had to be the best fighter in Panem.

"Excited to be done with it," I said. My mother gave me a dark look, and I returned it with a scowl.

"My parents bought me a new dress. It looks absolutely amazing! It's greenish-blue with a really ruffly layered skirt and my mom got a really pretty white sweater to go with it. So who do you think is gonna get picked? If it's me, will you root for me? If I do get picked, I hope I get some good stylists. Not like the one that the District 12 tributes got last year. Now that was just awful. Is there anyone you want to get picked?"

"Not really," I said. "I just hope whoever it is doesn't get killed."

"Well, yeah," Gemma said, with a tone that implied I was stating the obvious. "But chances are they probably will be. But who knows? The Games are never very predictable."

"Mm-hm."

"Well, my dad says it's time to go. See you at the reaping! Oh, and Happy Hunger Games!"

She hung up, and I gave the phone back to my mother.

XIXIXIXIX

"Our boy tribute…Alton Telmack!"

Shouts and cheers erupted across the crowd as Alton, a tall seventeen-year-old with shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes, made his way up to the platform. He was fit and muscled, and eight years of Hunger Games training had taught me to infer that this young man was born for physical combat. A good tribute. Dozens of hands reached up to give him a high-five, which he all accepted.

"He's hot," Gemma whispered in my ear.

I shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

Samuel Rictorvale, our escort from the Capitol, shook hands with Alton. "Do we have any volunteers for Mr. Telmack's place as tribute?"

Several hands shot up in the air. I counted at least thirteen. About half of them pushed to the front of the crowd to reach the stage. One boy actually climbed onto the platform, but was pulled down by a few other volunteers.

"Calm down, boys," hollered Mayor Horne. Her hair was almost the same color as mine, with a slight green tint and dark green at the ends. Her elegant gown matched her hair. "Volunteers ages twelve through fourteen, move to this side. Fifteen through eighteen, over here."

The lines were almost equal, with just barely more twelve-through-fourteen boys. Samuel Rictorvale randomly chose two boys from each line and lined them up according to height. I didn't really pay attention to the next part because Gemma was whispering something to me about how tacky Velvetina Camden's hair looked (pigtails are _so _last month), but both of us were paying attention enough to learn that our new boy tribute was Lexus Pecuniam, a fifteen-year-old with a dark blonde crew cut and weird (but not unattractive—Gemma called them alluring and exotic) golden eyes. By his slight figure and energetic gaze roving over the crowd, I guessed that he was agile, quick, observant, and strategic.

"And the ladies." Samuel Rictorvale reached into the other glass ball, shuffling around the tens of thousands of small slips of paper. Gemma grabbed my hand, and we crossed our fingers as Samuel pulled out a piece of paper.

"Diamond Coroll."

Oh, no.

Gemma squealed and nudged me. "Diamond, you won! Go up there!"

No, no, no! I did _not _want to go in the Hunger Games! Make it a mistake! Somebody volunteer!

My face remained stolid as I marched passively through the crowd to the platform. My brain was screaming at me to run away. But the sensible part of me reminded the crazy half that there were armed Peacekeepers keeping me from doing just that. Besides, my parents would be horrified.

"Do we have any volunteers for Miss Coroll's place as tribute?"

No. My parents had made sure of that—if I was called to be a tribute, I was a tribute. End of story.

"Congratulations to Lexus Pecuniam and Diamond Coroll, District 1's Hunger Games tributes!"

The crowd applauded. I pointed out my parents, who were nearly freaking out with excitement, and Gemma, who was bouncing and clapping and hooting and whistling. Lexus and I shook hands. His fingers were twitchy and long. My hand was sweating from anxiety, but Lexus took little notice, his rapid golden eyes darting across my face and body. I felt like he was inspecting me, dissecting me for weaknesses.

"May the best tribute win," he said with a sly grin and a cunning raise of the eyebrows.

I swallowed and nodded. And despite the cheers of my district and the reassurance of my parents, I could tell that things were not going to go very well for me for a while.


	2. The Capitol

Normally, repetitive noises don't annoy me. They drive Gemma crazy. I could spend a day in a clock shop with all the clocks ticking at different times and a tap dancing crew all around me and not have a problem. But with the rocking of the train, Samuel Rictorvale's frequent unintelligible muttering, and Lexus Pecuniam tapping and twitching and running his eyes all over the train car, it was hard for me to stay calm.

"Would you just cut that out?" I asked irritably.

Lexus looked at me and smirked. "It makes you distracted. Annoyed. Can't help it, I'm born this way."

I scowled. That seemed to just encourage him.

"Got any plans?" he asked. "Strategies, goals?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." But honestly, I had no idea what I was going to do. My parents told me to pick off the weaker ones at the Cornucopia without getting seriously wounded, collect some good stuff, and retreat to hide. Wait for the others to come to me and then kill them. But they didn't know about my decision.

I stood up and walked back to the compartment with the televisions where the reapings from other districts were being shown. I closed the door to prevent Lexus from following me and leaned against it.

"Aww, that's too bad," said one of the commentators on the TV. I turned around and saw that the reaping showing was from District 9, the grain district.

"Congratulations to Millet Sinoa and Robur Sinoa, District 9's Hunger Games tributes!"

The camera zoomed in on the faces of the two tributes as they shook hands. The boy, Robur, looked about my age. He had slightly wavy brown hair and brown eyes. The girl, a twelve-year-old, looked similar enough to be his sister. Then I realized that she was his sister.

"Well, that doesn't seem fair," I said to myself. Millet was crying, and Robur looked close to doing the same.

"Don't feel sorry for them," said a voice behind me. It was Golde, one of our mentors. She was sitting in one of the chairs by the window, her legs crossed at the ankles and her metallic-looking yellow hair done up in a complicated bun on top of her head.

"What?" I asked.

Golde gestured to the television. "Don't feel sorry for the other tributes. They'll be trying to kill you. In the arena, you're gonna have to shut out all emotion, all thought. Your goal is to kill, and to not be killed. The ones who regret, who think they have to be 'morally right'—those are the ones that are dead within the first hour."

I swallowed and nodded as the train slowed to a stop in the station. Golde and I went back up to the first car. Lexus smirked at me as I passed him, and I returned the smirk with a sneer.

I looked out the window and saw some Capitol people gawking and pointing excitedly at the train. We exit the train and enter the station in a single file line—Samuel Rictorvale first, stepping out to greet his other friends and family from the Capitol. Golde and our other mentor, Platinum, came next; and Lexus and I came out last. Golde grabbed my shoulders and steered me towards a large building which I assumed to be the Remake Center, where our stylists were waiting. Samuel finished his brief catch-up with his fellow Capitol-dwellers and followed us to the stylist's building.

When I entered the room where my prep team was waiting, all three of them gasped. I looked down at myself self-consciously—I was wearing a simple light blue shirt and a short ruffled white skirt, nothing much. My hair was in a plain ponytail at the base of my neck.

"What?" I asked.

"Such simplicity!" one of them cried. She had hot pink hair and swirling orange tattoos all over her face and was wearing an orange frock that was anything but simple, with its pointed shoulders and asymmetrical sleeves and choppy, layered skirt.

One of the prep team members, a man with spiky green hair and neon yellow eyebrows, fingered my hair. "Silky, dark, bit of curl—"

"My dear, you are near flawless," chirped the other man. His hair was very curly, and blue, and his skin had a magenta tint.

"A bit short," said the woman, standing up on her tiptoes.

"The perfect height!" argued the purple man.

"She doesn't even need us!" said the green-haired man.

The woman gasped. "We haven't told her our names yet! How frightfully rude of us!"

All three of them told me their names at once, but I could not decipher any of them. I asked them to repeat them, one at a time. Calliope was the woman, the purple man was Ostrinus, and the other man was Portim.

"I'm Diamond," I said.

Calliope giggled. "We know!"

"We saw how amazing you looked at the reaping," said Portim. "That silver dress was absolutely stunning."

"And who did your hair for that day?" Ostrinus asked.

My hand strayed to my simple ponytail. "My mother."

"It was perfection!" Calliope squealed. "It was magnificent!"

"And the other tribute alongside you—you're silver and gold! It's all so perfect!"

Calliope's squealing and all of their excitement and chatter made me think of the time when I had been ill and had to stay home from school for a week, and the moment I returned Gemma was spewing with news of what had happened in my absence—mainly gossip. The only differences here were that there were three brightly colored and painted Gemmas, and all the gossip was about how perfect and beautiful I looked.

"Wait until Alarie gets to you!" Calliope shrieked delightedly. "She and Tamin are going to make masterpieces of you two!"

I pursed my lips. Gemma would just be eating this up, excited to be the center of attention. I wished I could have her take my place. At least, for the public performance. In the arena, I would want to be replaced by someone who would actually do well. Someone who would actually fight.

A woman who I could only guess was Alarie sauntered into the room. The prep team scuttled out.

Alarie was a tall woman who looked like she was in her twenties, but something told me she was much older. Surgically de-aged. Her hair was long, straight, and bright crimson. Her skin was unnaturally pale.

"Diamond Coroll," she said stonily. Her Capitol accent was strong, the same as the prep team, but it had a different feel—theirs had been high-pitched, excited, giggly; Alarie's voice was hard, sharp, and cold, like a stone knife hovering over me, wondering where to pierce to do the most damage. She narrowed her eyes, as if deciding what to do with me.

"My name is Alarie, as your prep team probably told you," she said. "It doesn't look like they did much prepping."

I swallowed. "Th-they said…said I was near flawless. They said I didn't need them."

Alarie closed her eyes and nodded. "I see. Well, Diamond Coroll, my partner and I have a specific look planned out for you and the other tribute. Are you very familiar with Lexus Pecuniam? Friends, acquaintances?"

I shook my head. "I-I might have seen him once or twice at school, but not much more than that."

"Understood. I find it fateful that you wore silver to the reaping. Do you know why?"

I shook my head.

"Lexus Pecuniam, if you have noticed, has golden eyes and hair. Silver and gold, Diamond Coroll. The odds are in our favor for this appearance."

I frowned. "Why is this so important?"

"First impression is crucial to the Hunger Games. Your appearance here sets the stage for the entire event and, in most cases, the rest of your life."

And I thought Gemma was obsessed with looks.

"All right," I said. "Show me what you've got planned."

After what felt like eternity, Alarie let me look at myself in the mirror.

Sparkly gold paint circled and swirled down my face and arms, with intricate designs and hidden pictures if you looked hard enough. My dress was essentially an eight-inch-wide silver strip of fabric snaking around my body, with one shoulder strap and a skirt that was longer in the back than in the front. I was wearing earrings of tiny gold and silver strands. A golden tiara was on my head, centered perfectly over my hair, which was brushed out and simply hanging down my back.

When I saw him, Lexus was wearing an outfit similar to mine, but with the gold and silver switched around, pants instead of a skirt, no earrings, and no tiara. My prep team came in to sneak a look at us before the ceremony and squealed with excitement.

"They're going to love you both!" Calliope squeaked.

I blushed. Lexus smirked.

Our chariot matched our outfits, with serpentine gold and silver designs curling over the white background. Four white horses pulled it.

"Remember to smile and sell it," Alarie advised as I climbed into the chariot. "Give them no choice but to love you."

I nodded as the doors opened. It was showtime.


End file.
